Honor Bound dhp-2

by Rick Partlow

  “Open fire with the Gauss guns, Commander Pirelli… maybe we’ll get lucky. Commander Devlin,” Patel contacted Damage Control again. “I need to know when those shuttles are secure in the bay! Commander Kopecky,” he called to engineering, “tell me the second the Eysselink drive is back online.” He glanced back, noticing McKay for the first time. “This is going to be uncomfortably close, Colonel. Thanks for taking care of Mironov before he could do any more damage.”

  “He did enough,” McKay said, his voice flat, eyes on the viewscreen.

  Patel shot him a glance but withheld comment.

  “The antimatter canisters are secure, Admiral,” Commander Devlin reported. “The shuttles are moving into the docking bay now… just a couple more minutes.”

  “If they don’t get inside in the next five minutes, Mr. Devlin, you’re fired,” Patel deadpanned.

  “Understood, sir,” Devlin said, a grim humor in his voice.

  McKay watched the approaching missiles and didn’t feel fear so much as a crippling guilt. It would have been different had there been something for him to do, some duty he needed to perform, but as he could only stand and watch, he had the luxury of stopping to feel guilt. Would Shannon have seen through him? He asked himself. Would she have been more suspicious?

  “McKay,” Patel looked to him. “You might want to strap in,”

  “Yes, sir.” He moved to the acceleration couches behind the command chair and belted himself into it, eyes never leaving the screen and the approaching missiles.

  “Gauss rounds hit one of them,” Pirelli reported, “but it’s still on target. Two minutes.”

  “Admiral,” Commander Kopecky called from engineering, “the antimatter injectors are connected, field is ready to power up on your order.”

  ““Excellent, Commander, stand by for my order.” He switched over to Damage Control. “Commander Devlin, the shuttles?”

  “They’re all inside the bay, sir,” Devlin reported. “We’re still getting them secured to the docking locks-if we accelerate, they could break loose and cause some serious damage, but you can activate the field.”

  “Mr. Sweeny,” Patel said, a relieved sigh in his voice, “activate the drive field… station keeping only.”

  “Aye, sir,” Sweeny said with the grin of a condemned man who’d just been handed a reprieve, “station keeping only.”

  The view on the exterior cameras shifted as the drive field began propagating outward from the emitters in the pods on either side of the hull. Space-time warped outward and the ripples slammed into the oncoming missiles, ripping them apart in flares of fusion fire.

  “Shipbusters have detonated against the field,” Pirelli announced. “Sensors are back online. Oh, damn,” she said mildly. “Sir, we have two ramships coming in at 20g’s. They’re using Eysselink drives.”

  “They must keep most of their pirated antimatter here in their home system,” McKay guessed.

  “They have to be running on computer control, too,” Patel deduced. “The crew must be in g-sleep.”

  “If they have a crew,” McKay countered, remembering Vinnie’s idea from earlier. “It would be just as easy to give the computer a target and say ‘hit that,’ then let them go. Shipbusters with Eysselink drives.”

  “Now that’s disturbingly innovative of him,” Patel grumbled.

  “They’ll intercept us in less than an hour,” she said. “Sir..” she said hesitantly to Admiral Patel, “I don’t think we can use the emitters to destabilize their fields like we did before. They’re coming in too fast… we won’t have time to target them.”

  Sweeny blew a breath out through puffed cheeks and looked up from his station’s readout. “Admiral, to outrun them, we’re going to have to go into the tanks.”

  “Commander Devlin,” Patel pushed the indicator on his command console for Damage Control, “what’s the status of the antimatter fuel canisters we brought in with the shuttles?”

  “On the way to engineering now, sir,” Devlin told him.

  “Get it locked down, then get your people to the g-tanks,” Patel ordered. “Engineering,” he switched channels. “When the antimatter canisters get there, I need them powered up and locked down immediately. We are going to be in the g-tanks within the hour.”

  “Will do, sir,” Kopecky replied

  “Mr. Sweeny,” Patel said to the Helmsman, “I need a subroutine drawn up to get this ship through the last gate we came through without pulling us out of g-sleep. You and Ms. Pirelli tie it in with the emitters to get that gate open, cut the drive field, launch a spread of Area Denial missiles, then punch us through on the plasma drives before reactivating the Eysselink field, then waking us up. Correction: have it wake up just the bridge crew. That way if the rammers are still following us, we can do the same thing with the next gate then get back into the tanks quickly.”

  “Aye sir,” the Helmsman and Tactical officer chorused.

  “We’re going back the way we came, Admiral?” McKay noted.

  “We know we can at least get back to Peboan that way,” Patel said with a brisk nod. “I don’t trust Mironov’s word on the route back to Earth from here. Lt. Mandel,” Patel said to the Communications officer, “sound a shipwide alert: all personnel to report to the g-tanks in forty minutes.”

  “I guess we don’t get an observation run on Novoye Rodina,” McKay said wistfully as the alarm klaxons began to sound throughout the length of the Sheridan.

  “No,” Patel agreed. “But perhaps I was being greedy to try it anyway… at least we know where it is now.”

  “Why would he have risked that?” McKay mused, shaking his head. “Mironov… Antonov, whoever or whatever he was. Why would he risk bringing us here? Sure, he intended to sabotage us, but he couldn’t be certain he’d succeed. And if… when as it turned out… he failed, he’d risk letting us get home with the location of his home base.”

  “I can’t say for sure, of course,” Patel attempted to answer, “but I think you being on the ship made it personal; he probably figured he’d have a better chance of killing you and destroying the ship here, where his forces are the thickest. And he damned near did.” The Admiral shrugged. “We’re not out of the woods yet, McKay. Get to the g-tanks and make sure your people are secure. I’ll be down with the bridge crew as soon as they have that program finished up.”

  “Aye, sir,” McKay unstrapped and headed out of the bridge. “See you on the other side.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Daniel O’Keefe put on his most polished politician’s smile as he rose to shake Kevin Fourcade’s hand. Svetlana Zakharova shut the door to the office behind them, trying unsuccessfully to hide a look of distaste.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice, Mr. Fourcade,” O’Keefe said as he leaned over the desk, pumping the man’s hand. “Please, have a seat.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” the lobbyist said. “And believe me, it’s my honor to be called here, especially with everything that’s been happening. Sir, you have my deepest condolences on the death of your son-in-law. I hope there’s been progress in finding your daughter, the Senator…”

  O’Keefe examined the Fourcade’s well-designed face and was impressed by the way the man was able to fake sincere concern. Of course, maybe he was concerned about Valerie’s whereabouts, given the fact that his people hadn’t heard back from their hired assassin.

  “The Investigative Service is following up some promising leads,” he told Fourcade, neatly segueing from Cordial Politician to Concerned Parent. “We’re confident she will be found soon.” He took a breath, pretending to collect himself and his thoughts. “But I’m afraid that I have been neglecting the affairs of state for too long due to my personal family tragedies. There are things that must be dealt with, and the future of our economy is one of them.”

  O’Keefe sat back, clasping his hands in front of him on the desk and pursing his lips gravely. “Mr. Fourcade, I have given much thought to our last meeting. Finance
Minister Zakharova and I have discussed these matters exhaustively with our scientific and business advisors; it is no exaggeration to say that we have agonized over them, in fact. There is still great disagreement about this among my advisors, but as President, I have to take a public position on the matter of biomech research.”

  Fourcade nodded, sighing theatrically, his hands forming a resigned half-pleading position. “Sir, I know you have some personal experiences that make this a difficult issue, but…”

  “I’ve decided to support the bill,” O’Keefe interrupted him, fighting to keep from laughing as the man’s expression fell apart in clear shock. Of all the things Kevin Fourcade had been expecting from this meeting, that clearly wasn’t one of them.

  “Well, I…” the lobbyist fumbled with the words, hands still frozen in mid-gesture. “Sir, that’s… that’s very good to hear.”

  Svetlana Zakharova obviously disagreed; she was still scowling from where she sat beside Fourcade. O’Keefe had tried to explain his position to her, but was hampered by the fact that he didn’t really believe in it. Finally, he’d told her she could accept his position or he could accept her resignation.

  “I will be brutally honest with you, Mr. Fourcade,” O’Keefe admitted, “on a personal, visceral level, I still find the idea of us using these… things… for cheap labor to be a distasteful and frightening prospect. But I’ve come to realize that we are faced by nothing but distasteful prospects.” This part was easier to be sincere-sounding about, since it was patently true. “We can either return to sending political malcontents into what is basically indentured servitude or retreat from the stars and face an economic collapse that will rival the Crisis after the Sino-Russian War.” He shook his head. “Or we can take a leap into the unknown with the biomech bill. There’s only one possibility that doesn’t abrogate my responsibility to the citizens of the Republic whom I serve, and I have come to terms with that.”

  “I respect your devotion to the Republic, sir,” Fourcade said, having regained his composure. “When were you planning to go public with this position?”

  “Well, that’s why I wanted to talk to you in person, Mr. Fourcade. I had in mind a sort of a ceremony… I’d like to announce this from a setting appropriate for a decision that will affect our economy for decades to come. And it should happen immediately. So, I’ve decided to reschedule my speech to the Senate this Wednesday and instead have a live news conference meeting with the executives from the multicorps Executive Council in their headquarters in the Greater Houston Development Complex.”

  It was harder this time. O’Keefe actually felt the corner of his mouth tugging upward and had to cough to keep the laugh from bubbling up inside him at the way Fourcade’s eyes widened.

  “Sir, that’s… very short notice,” he stammered. “I’m not sure we can put something appropriate to the occasion together in such a short time…”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Kevin,” O’Keefe said, waving the concern away. “My press secretary will coordinate with you. I’m sure we can work out the details.” He leaned forward, his hands flat on the desktop, his expression adamant. “Besides,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, his eyes fierce with conviction, “by the power invested in me by the citizens of the Republic… I insist.”

  “You know,” Ari commented softly, “this was fucking genius, pardon my French.”

  “It certainly was,” Shannon agreed, mouth turning up in a wry smile. “I wish I had thought of it, but it was Val’s idea. It’s elegant, simple and has the potential to completely fuck up the plans of whoever’s behind this.”

  The two of them were sequestered in a small, unoccupied office not too far from the Capitol building, monitoring the President’s office.

  “We have a positive pairing with Fourcade’s ‘link,” Ari reported, checking a readout on the surveillance device on the folding table in front of him. “He’s got some serious security software on there, but we got around it.” He shrugged. “I hope. Otherwise, we’re being spoofed so well we can’t even realize it.”

  “He’s left the office,” Shannon observed. “He’ll be making the call soon.”

  “And here it comes,” Ari noted. “He’s calling the office of the Executive Council right now.” He cross-checked the information. “The number is just a switchboard system.”

  “Fourcade,” the lobbyist spoke into his ‘link, “calling for the Director.” Ari’s mouth shaped a silent whistle. Brendan Riordan, the Director of the multicorps’ Executive Council, was one of the three most important men in the Republic.

  “Yes, sir,” the switchboard program responded with a cheerful female voice. “One moment.”

  The hold was very brief, which Shannon found impressive, given Riordan’s status.

  “Kevin,” Riordan’s voice answered in a basso profundo like boulders crashing on a mountainside. “What can I do for you?”

  “Sir,” Fourcade said, his voice respectful but tense, “President O’Keefe has… had a change of heart about 1143B. He’s decided to come out in support of it.”

  “Well,” Riordan temporized, his deep voice going up an octave, “that’s… interesting, isn’t it?”

  “It gets more interesting. He wants to come out publically with this position Wednesday night… and instead of doing it during his scheduled address to the Senate, he’s planning on having a press conference at the Headquarters in Houston… and he wants you and the rest of the Executive Council in attendance.”

  “I’m sure you told him that’s not possible, given how little warning…”

  “Sir, he is not taking no for an answer,” Fourcade interrupted. “He said if he needs to, he’ll invoke the Emergency Reconvening Act of 2,104 and call a meeting of the Senate and the Council in Houston.”

  “Well then,” Riordan said after a moment’s consideration, “I suppose we have some calls to make, don’t we? Some things will need to be rescheduled.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fourcade replied, sounding even more harried, “but there are events that are pre-arranged and it may be difficult to communicate the schedule changes in time to assure a viable outcome.”

  “Kevin,” Riordan rumbled with an unmistakable tone of finality, “that is your problem.”

  The connection ended but Shannon and Ari could hear Fourcade mutter “Goddammit,” over the ‘link’s open pickup.

  “And the plot thickens,” Shannon commented. She glanced up at Ari. “Keep monitoring his communications. I’ll send Tom to help out.”

  “And what mischief will you be up to, ma’am?” Ari asked with a grin.

  “Captain Shamir,” she told him, “I think that Valerie O’Keefe has been missing for quite long enough.”

  * * *

  Commander Larry Gianeto embraced the misery of two g acceleration, trying to slow down his heart rate and breathing and go with the rhythm of the labored rise and fall of his too-heavy chest as he kept his eyes glued to the screen and the threat icons before and behind them.

  “Shipbuster is thirty seconds out from the bogie behind us,” he choked out. “Their countermeasures went off, but it’s still on target.” A few tense seconds went by and then the icon for the Shipbuster and that of the Protectorate ship chasing them merged on the screen. “Warhead didn’t ignite,” he said, checking the scanners. “Must have been damaged by the countermeasures. But I’m getting debris readings… and thermal flares. His drive has gone dead too! Must have impacted the ship!’ Even without a fusion warhead, the Shipbuster could severely damage or even destroy an unshielded ship; it was hundreds of tons of mass accelerating at over ten gravities. “Now all we have to worry about is the guys in front of us. Can’t be much longer.”

  Then he saw the faint lidar bounceback in the space between them and the two Protectorate ships ahead. “There it is… we got Gauss rounds incoming. They could be shooting at the Shipbusters, but they’ll hit us in ten minutes. Shipbusters still inbound and five minutes out.”

  “Is th
at like, habit?” Lt. Francis Witten asked, grimacing in what might have been an attempt at a grin. “I mean, you’re the acting Captain, so you’re kind of talking to yourself, right?”

  Gianeto scowled at him. “If anything happens to me,” he ground out, “you and Higgs need to know the situation. Didn’t they teach you that in Bridge Officer’s school?”

  “Hard to remember,” Witten admitted. “Never had a Captain get injured in a knife fight before.”

  “I appreciate it,” Lt. Higgs commented from the Communications station. “Hard to keep an eye on my station and the screen too.”

  “There go their countermeasures,” Gianeto reported as simulated explosions lit up the screen, displaying data too far away for the optical cameras to pick up. “And… yeah, was waiting for that. They’ve each launched two Shipbusters.”

  “I guess they’ve figured out that Duncan isn’t going to be able to sabotage us,” Higgs said.

  “Too bad the docs couldn’t save him,” Witten commented. “Been nice to be able to question him and find out how the hell the Protectorate got to him.” He frowned, looked over to the Communications officer. “Hey Janice,” he said, “can you pull up his records?”

  “What’s publically available anyway,” she said with a half-shrug. “Born in Capetown, South Africa, graduated tenth in his class from the Fleet Academy, class of 2,190. He started out as the Tactical Officer on the Patton-they still called them ‘Weapons’ Officers’ then-until the ship returned from a trip to Aphrodite back five years ago, then he applied to Command College and finished top of his class. Promoted to Commander shortly after and served on the Bradley before spending the last year on staff at Fleet HQ. I know he volunteered for this mission when Commander Durant broke his back rock climbing a week before we were scheduled to leave.” She gasped a bit as she finished, from the strain of talking so much during the 2g burn.

  “Wasn’t that convenient,” Witten snorted.